The Fall of a Warden, the Rise of the Chains
by Morec0
Summary: The Chain Warden has a past as twisted as his soul. A history forgotten to most and spoken only of in rhymes and riddles. Now a champion, once a legend, and before that a terrifying reality for all who were left to his whims. There are many tales of what the Warden had once been, each just as twisted and horrific as the last. This is but one of them.


They had called this place "The Box." It was the last place criminals were sent, any criminals, big or small, when their final attempts at freedom failed to provide results. It was a place to solitude. It was a place of darkness. It was a final destination – both prison and tomb – that no one ever left upon entering, not even the jailers themselves. One by one, inmate and warder alike went mad in solitude and died in their insanity. They were supposed to, The Box had been designed that way, to lock away the filth of civilization and keep them away from the rest of the world for the rest of their lives. To drive them out of their minds to break their criminality and, at the same time, drive them to death's door to break any chance of relapse.

But once, it was home to someone far more gone than any others before Him.

His name was lost and none was ever crafted to replace it, none was ever needed to replace it. All knew His name, all knew His face. He was simply "Him" to all the prisoners, Him to those who were supposed to be His allies, Him to all who managed to survive within The Box. His trademark were the chains, the bonds that had once held fast some many of the criminals while their life slowly ebbed away, and His calling card was the shriek they made as they were dragged along the corridors. That shriek, that scrape, that noise heralded His arrival. Heralded the arrival of the Warden; heralded the arrival of suffering and pain.

Only the other wardens could run, but they could only run so far, they could only take so many of the twists and turns that only wound back into one another over and over before they finally found themselves face to face with their sadistic counterpart once again. He would impale and tie them upon His chains and drag them, screaming and choking on their own blood and bile, wherever He went like some sort of hunting trophy, until their corpses rotted and fell off to fester in whatever hallway He left them in. And the prisoners, the poor helpless thieves and murderers, they would scream in terror and beg for help that would never come whenever He entered their cells to begin His darkest of deeds.

He would wind His chains around His prey, the cold metal burning and prickling their flesh, and then began to saw with them. Saw with the blunt chains, pulling them back and for hours upon days upon weeks, until He had finally flayed the very hide from their muscles and bones. And through all of this, through the sickening slick pealing of flesh and agonized, helpless, pointless cries of His victims, He would laugh.

And laugh.

And laugh.

And laugh.

He would take His time, pacing Himself and His prey, ensuring that they never had a chance to rest, never were unconscious from shock or too relieved from His actions that they could rest. He just kept going and going, never ceasing His actions until, finally, He had completed this event. The flesh of His victims was cast aside, a bloody suit to dry and fester in the cold and dark. But He was not done. This was never the end. This was never the final rest. He would then take His chains and drag His victims high into the rafters with them. They would dangle there, dripping blood and bile onto the floor as He let them steam and dry, let them finally have their rest as He prepared His next routine.

When He was ready, He would wrap His chains firmly around each leg of His victim, each arm, each appendage, and tighten His hold of them. Fasten His grasp on them as if to ensure they could not escape before He was done.

With His chains secured, He would pull; He would pull hard and fast, yanking over and over in succession until, finally, He had taken off His victims hand or foot or limb. He would continue this, even past His prey's death shortly after He began, and for five days and five nights He would then leave the limbless torso hanging for all to see. On the morning of the sixth day, He would return, and with one last, sharp snap of His chains sever the head from the body, letting both remains drop to the ground. He then gathered up His chains and proceeded to the next cell or hall, where His next victims awaited Him.

And this never ended, He never relented. The Box, His Box, was His to rule, His to use for His own ends, His to use to continue His demented spree of methodical torture and dissection. And they, the poor souls left amongst Him, were His. He owned them, every last one.

But where light once never shined, hope, a final hope, at last found a spot gleam. All the prisoners of The Box – inmate and jailer alike – banded together, inspired and rallied by a single beam of light, a single crack in the stone wall of their prison. A weakness. A way out. A chance at freedom. Together, they marched upon it, all together, all as one, all united in their dream.

But He was already there. He was waiting for them. He was blocking their path. And as their eyes widened in horror and some fled back into the darkness from whence they had come, their hope vanished. Their morale was snuffed out.

And then it was rekindled, but this time not with hope, but with rage. With vengeance. With bloody murder in their eyes.

They charged upon him and threw him to the ground. They took up his chains, his instruments of terror, their greatest fear, and threw them around the rafters above, coiling them around the stone and wooden beams above. They took the remaining lengths and him in their hands, and wrapped his own chains around his own neck.

And then they pulled.

And they pulled.

They pulled him up to the ceiling, up to where he had left so many others for five days and five nights. As his chains tightened more and more around his neck, he did not struggle for an instant, he did not try to save himself. From where he hung he raised his arms and shoulders and tilted his head back, as if to let the prisoners bask in him as they watched the last of the oxygen in his lungs run out and his body shudder as it struggled to bring in more. But he never broke his pose; he never dropped his arms until finally his sadistic brain died and his murderous heart stopped.

By his own chains they had done it.

By his own chains his cruel life was ended.

But by the chains of another it was given new meaning…

By the chains of the Isles he was brought before him.

By the chains a King, the jailer became the Warden.


End file.
